


Identity

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [14]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Death, Demonstuck, Gen, Ghosts, Tumblr Prompt, bro is a fucking murdering piece of shit obviously, kind of remix? we wrote them at the same time lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 02:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16864633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Dirk gets a ghostly visitor with a case of mistaken identity. A potentially deadly case of it, actually.





	Identity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glitched_Nebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitched_Nebula/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Vengeance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16856635) by [Glitched_Nebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitched_Nebula/pseuds/Glitched_Nebula). 



You're used to things trying to kill you, you really are. It's fairly close to a normal part of life, business as usual; an accepted facet of the lifestyle you've been raised in. 

However. There is a point when you don't fucking expect that shit. A line drawn in the sand, if you will; a quite literal line crafted from magic, copper wire sunk six inches underground, and plastic tubing filled with salt. That last one is not underground, because it kept developing holes and killing the grass. The HOA complained. 

It seems to still be having the problem with holes, because salt's what keeps ghosts out of the safehouse, and right now there is a _fucking_ ghost in the _fucking_ safehouse. 

In your workroom, in fact. 

"Shit—John—"

You mean to add _get in here with a fucking exorcism kit,_ but you only manage his name. No one could really blame you for prioritizing ducking over shouting, though; the alternative is to catch a philips-head screwdriver to the face. As it is, the tool flies over your head, embeds itself in the wall, and vibrates there for a moment before going still. 

Which means it's currently out of commission. It does _not_ mean you're free and clear; a tray of circuit boards flips over, scatters its contents into the air, and then flings the damn things at you. 

Ducking isn't going to do it this time. As much as you hate turning your back on a threat, you do it this time; all but one of the boards smack against your back. That last one hits the nape of your neck hard enough for the sharp exposed bits to dig in; you're pretty sure you're bleeding. 

If this isn't actually a ghost, that trickle of blood is probably going to get you killed. God, you hope it's just a ghost. 

Whatever it is, it's found another screwdriver. Thankfully, your previous attempts to dodge have taken you nearer the door; you yank it open, dive through, and kick it shut behind yourself. The screwdriver embeds itself deep enough that an inch sticks out on the same side you're on. 

While you're still staring at the door and considering the damage that would've done to your skull, John pokes his head out of the door to the other room. 

"Did you call me, Dirk?" 

You resist the urge to be sarcastic, subsuming it with the otherwise-pointless gesture of rubbing your forehead with one hand. "...yeah. We may have a problem."

* * *

"Dude, just gimme the Ouija board and I'll handle it." This is at least the fifth time Dave's said it, and like every fucking time before John shakes his head and hugs the box more firmly to his chest, glaring at you for the egregious crime of not backing him up on this. "What? He's a fucking poltergeist, all I'm gonna do is set the board down and let him talk—" 

"And what are we going to do when it stabs you? Dude, Karkat'll _literally_ murder us when he gets back—" 

"For fuck's sake, John, would you chill? I know what murderous intent feels like, that guy's just scared and vengeful and it's pretty exclusively focused on Dirk, okay?" Dave rolls his eyes at John, then looks over at you like he expects you to back _him_ up. 

You're not doing that. It's funny how much a little thing like a near-death experience manages to shake you up. "Can you just banish the ghost, maybe?" 

For that frustrated question, you get identical head-shakes, and an elaboration from John. 

"You don't banish ghosts; it's an exorcism or a dispersal. And either way, if Dave's right about it being vengeful toward you, it's just gonna come back." 

"What do you mean, _if_ I'm right?"

"If! You don't know if you're right! How the heck does empathy even work with ghosts; they're not alive anymore, it doesn't make sense—" 

"Have my powers _ever_ made sense, dumbass?" 

"Fuck off!" 

Oh for fuck's sake. 

You stand up, step in between the two of them, push Dave a step back and pull the box out of John's hands. He doesn't seem to particularly want to let go, but after a moment he does, probably because it's you. Once you've taken possession, you stalk back to the door to your workroom and pull it open, praying that the ghost's exhausted itself with trashing the place. 

Judging by the amount of mess, you're guessing it probably has; everything that weighs less than a grown human has been scooped up, flung at the floor and walls and everything that the ghost couldn't get to move. There's chunks taken out of the walls, tools everywhere, broken glass scattered across the floor...

When you step in, a couple sockets roll across the table, but nothing flings itself at you. Excellent. 

You shove those sockets out of the way and lay the board down in their place, setting the planchette in the center and taking a deep breath and a step back. "Okay. My name is Dirk Strider, and I need to know why you want to kill me." 

For a moment, nothing moves. 

Then the planchette zooms off the board, and off the table, straight at your head. You fail to duck. Thank fuck that the thing's made of light plastic...

"Ow." Light plastic molded into a surprisingly sharp point. Why the hell did they choose that shape? "That's not an answer, but okay." 

You collect the planchette, center it on the board, step back again. "Why are you trying to—" 

You don't manage to duck this time either. The pointy end hits you in almost exactly the same spot. 

"Goddamnit."

* * *

An hour later, the ghost throws the planchette against the wall hard enough that it snaps into two pieces, and you decide to concede defeat, at least for the moment. 

This means that you step out of the room, close the door behind you, and head straight to the living room. John's on the couch, probably sulking over your Ouija theft; this does not at all prevent you from flopping down across the entire couch, face down in his lap, and announcing, "I'm a fucking failure." 

"The ghost wouldn't talk to you, huh?" Your boyfriend makes a sympathetic sound, petting the back of your head. Then he makes a concerned one. "...are you bleeding on my jeans." 

"No." Then again, the ghost did hit you a fuckload of times with whatever items were light enough for it to pick up and throw at you. And your head does hurt. "Maybe." 

"Oh my god, Dirk, roll over and let me see it." 

"Fuck off." But you do roll over, reluctantly. 

As soon as you do, John makes a face and touches a surprisingly painful spot on your forehead with one finger. That finger comes away with red on the tip. "Yep, you're bleeding. Get up so we can go clean it up—" 

"Just grab the first aid kit under the couch and slap a bandaid on it." 

"You're gonna have blood on your face if I do that." 

"There's alcohol wipes in the kit, clean me up with them." 

"Seriously?" 

"Why not?" 

"I'm kinkshaming you for masochism." 

"Shut _up._ " You huff and close your eyes, as John leans over to collect the plastic box. He sets it on your chest, pops it open, and a second later you feel cool wetness wipe across your forehead. 

He's careful not to get the wipe near the cut, just like you knew he would be; there's no more pain than what's already there. A second later he smooths some antibiotic cream across the cut itself, presses a bandaid over it, and slides a hand under your head to lift you just enough that he can comfortably lean down and kiss the injured spot. 

_Now_ you open your eyes, to smile at him as he pulls back. "That's the best part of you playing doctor." 

"Cool, want another one?" 

"Mhm. I think the spook hit me in the mouth too—" 

"You _liar._ " He stifles a laugh and kisses you again, this time where you asked him to. This time, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself halfway up when he goes to straighten up again, clinging until he laughs against your mouth and shifts to support some portion of your weight. 

Okay, the ghost can just fucking have your workroom, if John's going to provide a diversion for you. Jake'll be able to tell you how to get rid of the thing when he gets back, you can wait, it'll be _fine..._

Somewhere behind John, Dave clears his throat. Oh. Yeah. You're not alone in the house. Actually fuck it, this is payback for the times when you've just ignored him and Karkat making out on the couch or at the kitchen table; there's no way you're cutting this short for him. 

Unfortunately, John is more polite than you. He doesn't let your irritated huff keep him from pulling back and looking over his shoulder. "What?" 

"Eh, nothing much. Just got off the phone with Karkat about dealing with this ghost dude." Dave shrugs, and even though his expression literally could not be more nonchalant, you somehow _know_ that you're not going to like the next words out of his mouth. "I'm gonna go invite your ghost to possess me, talk to him that way." 

" _What_?" From the way John's voice scales up in obvious horror, he's just as unhappy with that statement as you are. "What the fuck, Dave?" 

"Y'all, it's fine." Dave shrugs and tosses you his phone; you fumble the catch because you're in the middle of sitting up so you can follow him to the workroom. Or just stop him from getting there. Yeah, that would be the best choice , if you weren't so fucking slow. "Karkat can kick him out of me from Missouri, if he needs to." 

"Dave, this fucker tried to kill me, you can't just—fuck, Dave, _wait—_ " 

Dave dodges your grab for his arm without even looking at you, yanks the door open, and steps inside your workroom. John holds you back from stepping through the doorway, but since Dave leaves the door itself open, you get a perfect view as he looks around, shrugs, and spreads his arms. 

"Yo, I know you're here, dude. I can feel you even if I can't see you. We wanna talk, okay? And I get that you don't wanna spell shit out; it's frustrating and you're mad, so I'm here to speak for you. Or like, let you speak through me. I—" 

Dave stops, head rocking back and eyes squeezing shut like he's been struck. When his eyes open again, they're cloudy white, the irises and pupils gone paler until you can barely distinguish them. 

You can tell that he's looking at you, though. And after a moment his face twists up in unfamiliar rage, and his voice isn't Dave anymore when he snarls, " _You fucking killed me!_ " 

Oh, god. 

The faces of everyone that you've ever gotten killed flash through your mind. Every time you slipped up badly enough to cost someone their life, every time you pulled the trigger or drove a blade into flesh because you couldn't find a way out that would mean everyone survived, every fucking time you were too slow or stupid—oh, _god_ , no, you don't know who this is but you know he won't stop until you're dead, and when John tries to step in front of you to protect you from the ghost wearing Dave like a shirt you shove him to the side. This is your fault, your fault, _your fucking fault_ —

"Fuck! No!" That's Dave's voice, though, and as he shouts those two words his head snaps back again. When his eyes open, they're familiar bright red once more. "Dirk, it's not you, I swear it's not you—Griffin, stop fuckin' fighting me, 'kat's not letting you back in until I tell him to!" 

"Griffin." You don't know a Griffin. You don't think you ever have. Could you just...fuck, could you have forgotten killing someone? Could you have fucking forgotten the name of a dead hunter like this? "I—fuck, I don't—" 

John slips back up beside you, sliding an arm around your shoulders. "Are you going to be okay?" 

That is the _stupidest_ question you've ever heard. 

"Dumb question, John," Dave informs him before you can make a decision on what to say. "Dirk, you need to go in the other room." 

"No." Not even an option. The ghost'll end up hurting someone else, if you don't let him hurt you. You killed him, you deserve this shit. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Dave takes a deep breath, eyes flickering from red-irised to pure red for a second. Damn, watching him think back and forth with Karkat is still weird sometimes... "Okay. _Okay._ We're gonna try this again, except you're gonna fuckin' _listen._ " 

You only realize that last bit wasn't directed at you when Dave blinks and his eyes go white, and the next sentence comes out in a voice that's got someone else layered over him. " _He fucking murdered me! He set me up with a fake hunt, stabbed me in the back, and you want me to—_ " 

Wait, what? "I...I never did that. I wouldn't. I couldn't." 

The ghost bares Dave's teeth at you, but before he can say anything Dave's eyes flash demon-red, then fade back to normal. 

"I know you didn't, Dirk—

" _Stop lying! Those fucking eyes were the last thing I ever saw—_ " 

"Yeah, I fucking _remember_ how pissed Bro was when you hooked his shades off, okay?" Dave takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head when his eyes start to fade to white again. "No. You need to listen to me, Griffin—you _know_ me. Don't you?" 

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Dave blinks, and it's the ghost behind his eyes again. 

" _It can't be you._ " 

Blink, and it's Dave. "Yeah. It's been a while, man." 

Blink. The ghost, and now you can tell by the expression on his face as well as the color of his eyes, because Dave's just resigned but this guy...this guy's _horrified._ " _You were a fucking baby!_

"I was twelve.

" _You were the reason I thought something was up—you—_ " 

"If you're going to blame him, back right the fuck off." That comes out rougher than you mean it to, but honestly you don't fucking care. "He was a fucking kid." 

Dave glances at you, then shakes his head, crossing his arms in front of himself. No, wrapping them around his chest, hugging himself like he's freezing. "Griffin?

" _Still here._ " The transition's smoother now, and it doesn't take Karkat's intervention for the ghost to let Dave take control again. 

"Yeah, I know you're still here—it hurts like fuck, actually." Dave sighs and runs one hand through his hair, fucking it up more spectacularly than you're used to. "You know Bro's actual name— 

" _Derrick Strider._

"Yeah. That's not him. That's Dirk. God, Griffin, think about this shit for a second—Bro'd be older than that if he was still alive, he wouldn't— 

" _Still alive?_ " Shit. The rising panic on Dave's face can't be good, especially since you're not sure that the ghost is the only one driving it. " _No—he can't be dead, I need to—_ " 

For a second, Dave's wide eyes flicker back to normal. It's just enough time for him to choke out, "Shit, Griffin, _don't—_ " 

Then...something happens. 

You've had visions before. It's very rarely a pleasant experience, unless it's been designed to be, and this is anything but pleasant. 

The memory of dying never is. 

_Gun's drawn but lowered, ready to fire, and I walk in first because the creep has his kid at his side. God, what the fuck is he even thinking, taking a kid that young along on a hunt? Yeah, this is probably a bust, but what the fuck, dude?_

_The kid's what makes me assume it's just my paranoia that warns against turning my back on him. Paranoia. Hunters get it young and never let it go, if they're going to survive, and I only know that I didn't keep it long enough when cold steel drives deep into my lower back._

_No._

_There's more pain when my own dead weight drags the blade out of me, but everything below the cut might as well be gone. He's cut my goddamn spinal cord, hasn't he? I can barely manage to turn to look up at the fucking murderer._

_The fact that the kid's still there adds a twist of surrealism to this shit. The bastard hands off the sword and the kid takes it without a word, but the way his mouth quivers says shit that doesn't need words. He looks at me for a heartbeat, then averts his eyes as the bastard pulls a wicked little knife and kicks me in the side, kneeling down to straddle my chest as I lay there gasping for breath between the double pain._

_He opens his mouth to say something—maybe to tell me why, I don't fucking know—and I twist under him as well as i can, both hands coming up to claw at his face. I want to take out his eyes. I don't get his eyes. My nails graze the side of his face, leave thin bleeding marks and send the idiotic anime shades flying, and he snarls out a curse and backhands me hard enough to bounce my skull off bare floor._

_Before I can really even start to recover, that knife drives down into my right eye socket, deeper than the eye itself, right into my fucking brain._

_I'm dead before he pulls it out to stab me on the left side, but even in the last darkness the memory of his orange eyes never fades._

* * *

You know you haven't been unconscious for that long, because you're still on the floor where you fell. Before you can even move, you have to reach for your face, groping for blood or damage or pain, anything that you felt from Griffin. 

All you find is the bandaid John put on your forehead. Oddly, that's what you find yourself using as a centering point, concentrating on as you open your eyes and push yourself to your knees. 

The plan is to _stay_ on your knees, in fact. Wait a second, calm yourself from that fucking _horrible_ vision, then talk to the ghost—to Griffin. But you raise your head, and you see that Dave's on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, shoulders shaking like he's doing his damnedest to contain sobs. 

You actually have no memory of moving to him. One second you're on your knees in the hall, registering that John's on the floor next to you; then you're back in your workroom, collapsing next to Dave to pull him into your lap. "Dave, shit, Dave...Dave..." 

His name's all that's coming out, and after a couple more repetitions he does raise his head. 

You're saying the wrong name. His eyes are an unsteady, swirling mix of white and red, like blood mixing into milk. Oh, god, you're going to be sick. 

No. You're not. Can't be. Dave needs you. 

" _You're not him,_ " Griffin whispers, going limp in your arms. " _He_ —

"He's fuckin' dead," Dave finishes. He sounds like he's strained something in his throat, hoarse and nearly broken. "I swear to you that this's the—the first Dirk heard about this shit." He turns his head and winces, closing his eyes. "Jesus, that hurts.

" _He can't be dead—what the hell do I do, if he's dead?_ "

"Move on." You suggest it and instantly hate yourself for suggesting it, because the sob that rips itself out of Dave's throat is all the proof that you need that Griffin _can't_ move on. "Oh, fuck—here. Come here." 

He keeps sobbing, as you haul him half-upright to lean against you, hug him up to your chest. You don't even fucking know if it's your brother or the ghost of someone who thought you were the man he needed to kill, but either way he's hurting. Either way, he needs this. 

You know when the ghost slides out of Dave, if only because his grip on you tightens. You hold onto him, and watch as the Ouija board slides towards the edge of the table, falls off, and scoots across the floor until it's next to you. 

It takes him a moment to figure out what he can use as a pointer, but Griffin sifts through the debris until he comes up with a bolt, dropping it on the board and starting to move it around. 

I. D-O-N-T. K-N-O-W. H-O-W. T-O. G-O. A-W-A-Y.

"I know you don't. It was a stupid thing to say, I'm sorry." 

I. T-H-O-U-G-T. K-I-L-L-I-N-G. H-I-M. W-O-U-L-D. B. T-H-E. E-N-D. 

"It...probably would have. Most ghosts with as much power as you disperse once they've been avenged on whoever gave the strength to come back..." Griffin can't get that vengeance, though. You don't know how long he might stay here for. "I'm sorry." 

W-H-A-T. D-O. I. D-O. N-O-W?

"Uh. I mean...do you want a mechanical body?" 

The bolt zooms to YES and just sits there, bouncing up and down slightly. 

"It's just going to be something you can control, speak through. Think...more advanced furby." 

R-O-O-M-B-A. 

"...didn't you die before those were a thing?" 

K-I-D. K-N-O-W-S. There's a pause, then the bolt keeps moving, pointing to four more letters. D-A-V-E. 

"Yeah. Dave." You sigh, shifting your grip on Dave a bit and trying not to flinch at the way he just stays limp in your arms. "Look...I'm sorry. Even if I didn't kill you, I'm _sorry._ You're welcome to stay here as long as you can, and if you want a roomba to possess, I'll trick out a fucking roomba with a speaker for you." 

For a second, the bolt's still. Then it spells out T-H-A-N-K. Y-O-U. 

"Yeah. You're welcome...can you make sure John's okay for me, though?" 

The bolt slides to YES, then rises up to float over and start poking at John. When he groans and bats at it, you finally let yourself relax. 

Everything will be okay. Even if "everything" includes a ghostly addition to the safehouse's family.


End file.
